Camille gives birth to her son in the summer, a little boy named Aaron Nathaniel Kincaid. He's small for his age with a full head of curls and a smile just like his daddy's. She holds him as soon as the drugs wear off, brushing her finger over his forehead and nose, tracing his smile.

"He's perfect," she says, whispering so as not to wake him. "Our little miracle." Sitting on the edge of the bed, Gage runs a hand over Aaron's curls.

"Mom's gonna love that she's his namesake."

"She's strong and that's what I want our baby to be. He's gotta be strong in this world." Aaron makes a small noise, eyes fluttering open. They're blue right now and she hopes they stay that way. The same shade as Gage's and not the dark ones of Cameron. She doesn't want to remember her biological father and she prays Aaron won't inherit any of his quirks.

"She said her and Pops will be here by the weekend to help out. Said something about vacation days she can't wait to cash in."

"I can't picture your mom and dad in New Orleans." She laughs, imagining the fanny pack and knee-high socks look that Jackson will probably try to pull off. Erin will wear shorts and tank tops, spending the weekend gushing over the baby while Jackson sobs hysterically in the background. At least, that's how Gage says things will go.

"Mama will be just fine here. Apart from being extraordinarily white, she'll blend in. Pops, on the other hand, will be bait for every pickpocket in the area." She laughs again, leaning against her pillows and settling the baby against her chest. One little hand curls around the collar of her nightgown, fingers tightening and relaxing.

"A package arrived yesterday," Camille says after a moment. Gage hums, running long fingers over Aaron's back. He's completely enamored with their son already, turning soft and pliable. This baby is going to be spoiled. "It was from Lana."

"What'd she want?"

"She sent me an advanced copy of her book." It's little more than a manuscript, not due to be released until next year, but she had sent it anyway. "It's…. There's not a whole lot of the truth left in it after the rewrites." She'd read the thing and then burned it, old memories creeping up on her until the contractions started.

"I told her to leave us alone after the last letter." Gage shakes his head, sending a disgusted look out the window. The last letter had made Gage so angry that he'd thrown one of the café chairs across the sidewalk, scratching up the durable metal. Lana had asked for details of Camille's abuse at Cameron's hands, asked how she felt when she lured Miss Burton and Allison Rydell to their deaths. Camille's return letter had been simple, only two words: fuck you.

"We all have to deal in our own ways, I guess. None of us can go see a therapist after what Daddy did." Not Camille or Lana or Kit, not after the way Oliver had manipulated them and hurt them. Therapy is an off limits thing because every therapist morphs into Oliver. At least, that's what happens when Camille tries.

"Get some rest, Cami. I'll take care of the baby."


"Are you excited," Gage asks, helping Aaron into his coat.

"Yeah!" The three year old bounces excitedly on the couch, making it all the more difficult to actually get the coat on him. Gage doesn't get mad, though, he just laughs and bounces along with him. "Gonna see my friends!"

"That's right, sprout." Camille grins, snapping a picture for the album she's putting together. It's half full already, names and dates written in her chicken scratch at the bottom of each polaroid before it's glued in place. It'll be a wedding present one day, when Aaron is twenty-three and his young bride is twenty. "But we can only go see 'em if you get your coat on."

"Okay, Daddy." He's still long enough for Gage to slide the denim over his shoulder, then he's off the couch and sprinting for the front door. Behind the front desk, a clerk is watching the spectacle with something caught between a grimace and a smile. "Let's go!"

"Hold your horses," Camille laughs. She and Gage each take one of Aaron's hands and lead him out into the bright sunlight of early afternoon, the little boy grinning as he takes in the sights. It's his first time in Boston and it seems to agree with him.

"It smells funny here."

"Why's that?"

"Nobody's cookin', Mama."

"If you're good at Uncle Kit's house, then we'll take you to the bakery Daddy used to own." They'd lived there together for two years before they moved to Louisiana to avoid the growing amount of reporters Lana had inadvertently sent their way. Gage and Camille Kincaid are nobodies in New Orleans and they'd like to keep it that way.

They ride to Kit's farmhouse in Gage's old pickup, the motor purring just like it used to. The radio is playing a Thurston Harris song that Aaron almost has memorized, singing along clumsily and humming the parts he doesn't know yet.

Kit's waiting outside when they pull up, a little girl balanced on his hip and a little boy holding his hand. All three are beaming at them, all three sharing the same puppy-dog smile that makes Camille remember a rainy night at Briarcliff where she first saw one of Kit Walker's little green men. She hasn't ever talked about that night since 1964, but seeing his smile, Camille thinks they're both ready to get it off their chests. He's the godfather of her son, they shouldn't have secrets.

That night, when Gage is sound asleep on the couch and Jude has taken the little ones to her room for a story, Kit and Camille bare their souls to each other. Kit tells her about the aliens and Alma while Camille tells him about her father's belt and the librarian she'd been so fond of.

The passing of time doesn't seem real for a long time after that, not until her son curls up in her arms with a yawn and says," Julia and Thomas are so special, Mama." He's sound asleep after that, dreaming about Princes and dragons.

"Is he like you," Kit asks. "Can he see the balloons?"

"No," she says with a smile. "My boy's just perceptive, is all. And he's right, Kit, your kids are special."


Erika Grace Kincaid is born at three o'clock in the morning, a bald and screaming thing that didn't quiet until she was placed in her nana's arms. Delilah is sound asleep in the hospital bed, Aaron fussing over her and Cordelia, Delilah's best friend, fussing over him.

Camille takes the newborn over to the window that overlooks the parking lot and a somewhat decent view of New Orleans. Erika is swaddled in a soft blanket that Gage had knitted, her face paler now that she isn't screaming her little head off. In fact, she's almost asleep as Camille starts to bounce her gently.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," she promises," you're going to have a happy ending. Parts in the middle will be bumpy and you'll eventually have to toss the Antichrist across the room, but you'll get your happy ending."

"Ba," says Erika, which Camille takes to mean well, of course I will, I'm cute. Camille grins down at her granddaughter, seeing bright spots of yellow behind her eyes. The baby is happy and that's all Camille can bring herself to care about.

"You're going to be a teacher at a school meant for Witches, you know. Well-respected and all that jazz." The baby makes another sound, the yellow growing brighter. "My daddy used to talk to me like this when I was little. He'd tell me all sorts of things and some of them were even the truth. He was a bad guy, but there was a bit of good in him."

"Aba." Camille takes that to mean you turned out just fine even if you do have gray hair now. She doesn't mind, gray hair suits her far more than the arthritis in her knees. "Gobba." Will you sing to me before I throw a fit so loud that it wakes my mommy? Of course she'll sing, she knows just the song.

"Earth angel, earth angel, will you be mine? My darling dear, love you all the time. I'm just a fool in love with you."


It's late when Camille wakes up, moonlight shining in past gossamer curtains that have seen better days. The ends have started to fray and there's a few holes in it, but she couldn't make herself throw them away after Oliver and Cameron were dead. Now, as she watches them flutter in an impossible breeze, a familiar form appears.

"Have you been around this whole time," she asks, voice hoarse. The person gives her a bright smile and sits on the edge of her bed, petting her hair just like he used to. If she closes her eyes, she could imagine that she's a young girl again, but she's not ready to close her eyes quite yet.

"How could I possibly leave without you," he asks, voice the same baritone she remembers. His hands are gentle as they cup her face, thumbs brushing across her cheeks. "You've done good, Cami. I'm so proud of you." Another person steps out of the darkness, her blonde hair hanging in thick waves down her back. Camille knows who it is, though there's no possible way she should.


"Hi, baby," Allison greets. She perches on the bed next to Oliver, batting his hands away so she can cup Camille's face herself. Allison Miller's hands are soft as they trace Camille's nose, her smile kind when Camille huffs out a breath. "It's time to go. Are you ready?" Camille glances over at her husband, Gage sound asleep against her back with an arm thrown over her waist.

"How could I possibly leave my husband?" Allison's smile turns sad and Oliver rolls his eyes.

"He'll be joining us in a few months."

"And my granddaughter?"

"Erika will be just fine," Oliver promises. "I may not be able to join my own daughter in heaven due to some of my past exploits and the fact that a black-haired angel has it in for me, but I can watch over my great-granddaughter. I'll make sure she survives the coming war."

"The Antichrist—"

"I have it on good authority that he won't win, sweetheart." Camille nods, relaxing back in bed. She rests her hand on top of Gage's, twining their fingers together. Even sound asleep, he squeezes her hand in return. "Go to sleep and I'll see you when you wake up again."

"Will you sing to me, Daddy? Like you used to?"

"Anything for my little angel." She closes her eyes as he sings and another person joins the room, a pale woman with red lips and a soothing voice. A glove-covered hand brushes Camille's cheek and soft lips press against her own.

With a quiet breath and a flutter of wings, Camille let's herself float away.